


Daybreak

by Arvanion



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous Age, Father-Daughter Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5286998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvanion/pseuds/Arvanion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the final page has been turned, there is nothing more to be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daybreak

Ambrose turned the final page of the last book in his library, and began preparing for his death.

The other rooms of the manor may have been thick with dust, but the library was as immaculate as it had been when Sarah had lived there. The books were hers, or had been hers–gifts for her ailing father, brought back from her many travels. It had taken him a long time to read through all of them. He’d lost track of exactly how long. Years, at the very least, and Sarah had been gone for most of them.

He had found her outside the manor one rainy night, curled up under the balcony, her small body racked by quiet sobbing. All she had wanted was a dry place to sleep for the night. She had been terrified when she saw him: a tall man in fine clothing, skin pale from lack of sunlight, a confused expression on his face. When he saw her, he had felt pity. An orphan, cast out like trash, with nobody to care for her. He would change that.

He took her in, educated her. In the cavernous darkness of his windowless study, he listened to her laughter as she ran through the halls. After sundown, he took her out on the balcony to watch the stars, or into the fields behind the house to tend the small flock of sheep that sustained them, and to play with the dogs that watched over the flock. Some nights, when the weather was calm, he would carry her down to the sea on his back, and the two of them would skip stones across the waves.

Sarah had always shown a passion for reading, even from an early age, and had read through most of the books in her father’s library by the time she turned ten. When Sarah had heard of a bookshop opening in town she had begged to go. Ambrose had given her money without a second thought–he had plenty laid by, and rarely spent any of it. When she returned in the evening, her arms were filled with books she had purchased.

From then on, her trips into town became more frequent.

And so Ambrose watched his library grow larger, even as his adopted daughter grew older. Quick-witted and even quicker-tongued, Sarah was a favorite among the people of the town. Even a few words from her could make them laugh. Only her father seemed impervious–Ambrose, who never laughed aloud, who smiled only rarely. Even then, his smiles were small: lips slightly upturned, eyes warm. He never showed his teeth.

At twenty, Sarah had left on a trip for the city. She was gone for several months, but when she returned, it was in a cart laden with books–folios of written drama, field studies of biology published after the latest expeditions, texts in foreign languages. She loved learning as much as Ambrose did, and even if he never strayed from their manor, he ought to be able to continue his studies. For his part, Ambrose read those of the books that caught his fancy and set the rest by. His daughter’s gifts had outstripped the speed at which he could read them.

Years passed. Sarah’s journeys became more frequent, and longer. Ambrose continued to receive books, month after month–sent to him along with letters from Sarah detailing her latest adventures. He would retrieve the crates from his doorstep, reading her letters hungrily. She was doing what he, in his condition, could not, and her accounts of her adventures were valuable beyond price to him. The books went onto the shelves, but the letters were gathered in a drawer of his desk, and he would read them over and over again.

The letters had stopped one winter, and he hadn’t learned until months later that Sarah had sickened in a far-off country. Her condition had only grown worse, and one night, after falling asleep in exhaustion, she had never awoken. There would be no more letters, no more books.

In his grief, Ambrose had turned to the unread books in his library for comfort. They were the only connection he had left to his daughter–notes in the margins, small stains from where she had been careless with food, pressed flowers that she had forgotten. Even with all this, her memory seemed to slip further away with each passing day. Ambrose read almost without ceasing, by candlelight and moonlight, as if chasing her. He’d lost track of how long. Years, at least.

Tonight, there was nothing more to read.

Ambrose replaced the book on the shelf and walked through the empty halls of the manor. He could hear the wind rustling the always-drawn curtains, and the distant sounds of the sea washing against the shore. He reached the front door and stepped outside, breathing deeply. He could almost taste the surrounding countryside: the salt spray, the evening dew, the dampness of the soil. It was intoxicating.

He walked out to the pasture, where the sheep were still contentedly penned up for the night, and opened the gate. The hinges creaked, and the lone sheepdog’s ears perked up. She dashed over to him, tongue out and tail wagging. Ambrose scratched her behind the ears, absentmindedly. He surveyed the pasture with a contented air. Then he turned his back on the open gate and headed home. His flock was free to go where they pleased. He didn’t need them anymore.

His stride was slower as he returned to his house. The night was almost at an end. Far off, in the town, he could hear the bells of the church tolling five o’clock. He had always loved the bells, even if he hadn’t been to church in years.

Through the hallways–empty now of his daughter’s laughter. Past his bedroom, unused and closed up. He finally emerged onto the balcony, where he and Sarah had spent so much time watching the stars. He leaned against the railing, facing the eastern horizon, and waited for the dawn.

He had forgotten how beautiful the sunrise could be.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a story about a vampire and his daughter.
> 
> I originally posted this over on my blog, but when I figured out that AO3 had a tag for Original Work, I figured that I might as well post it here as well.


End file.
